The Dangers and Potholes of a Capitalist Economy

"I get paid in monkey.
Then I sell the monkeys to small children for ridiculous prices. Then rape the children
before they leave."

The Illegal Impression

The forbidden cult of the underground poets.
A true escape haunts both of these eyes
For never can the world know now
Of what did pass, in time untold
The practice was strange, a selfish act
To keep one's mind on the plane of sanity and reason.

But if ever these tools did reach another's eyes, or ears!
It was forbidden by all who knew, that is
Who knew that they must not know
For the sake of every other.
A volatile equation convinces them of the futility of pale reason.
It cannot compete in err or triumph,
But how could it?

An example is drawn when eyes are closed again.
The individual sense explains our death rite.
Must not speak.

Do you know the trees? Describe them.
No. Describe them truly.
How do they impress themselves upon you?
What can your person do to change me?
Now you understand the unspeakable darkness.

Dionysus' Madness

I cannot stand the poet
Such an overexaggerated air
But not of confidence; themselves.

I, the Other

I can't run, however
The weight continues to pull
And a head distorts the truth
Of whatever we can know, if we can.
But there is a tendency to assume -
This opinion?
Obviously we try to challenge this
Never fully justified by a
Lack of testimony
Only a return to the mimic
The form of life that fills
An idea to be.
Exist from now on, to make your
Freedom last and to exercise
The ultimate right of choice,
Which is.

He Remembered His Own Sarcasm

My eyes close
And I return to the room
Unintentional
But calming
And warm
Transient harmony
If only for a moment
Before the other reappears
Outside of my eyes
The pressure and the weight
Light again
But cold for its space
And words that come and go -
Through that man we know no more
Except if wishing for northern slur
And praise of the old and grateful dead

An Entirely Unnecessary Composition

Let us run counter to this expectation
That people try, and drift along
For not their minds are used for long.
Until does Fate destroy with tools
These vessels wrought by blind, poor fools.

Now take, and to, see, and why
Does it appear, before - can fly?
Not a cliché, divined by sight
But one of sound and enchanting light.

Perpetual plague - will to assume
Inevitable that it must consume
Eventual, life is ripped from birth
The other, the tyrant; laughter and mirth.

To whom, we grant the sabled eye?
A stream, but broken before the sky
The great life, through the world
Disaster as ever, truth unfurled.

And when sense nears its rest
Reason encounters its greatest test
The one, not other, commands a way
For the voice, its choice, to finally say.

Twenty-Two Propositions or; Sixteen Solutions

Tempered steel and context wrought
A laboured day and battles fought
Deep in time, the abstract thought
Never new, the meaning bought